Brother Gregory: Gene Seven

By John Hulme

Women's fashion and the desire for highly-colored cloth was the strange starting point for the new science of chemistry; the manipulation of atoms and molecules into valuable new forms and properties. Brother Gregory is trapped into helping others turn cloth red - for a wedding - while also running for election - to allow his friend to escape imprisonment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Hulme
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311068828

John Hulme

John Hulme is a retired Professor, now living and writing in Florida. He was educated in England - a long time ago - and arrived on the shores of New York carrying a single suitcase and lots of ideas. He has written several hardcover science books and was an early user of the fledgling internet as a teaching tool. Before retirement he wrote a set of fictional science stories about Gregor Mendel - the person who discovered genetics, which he is now converting into ebooks. Since retirement he has started on a long-cherished writing project of historical fiction - which you may be seeing soon.

Book preview

Brother Gregory: Gene Seven

Circles of Carbon

Being the fictionalized story of Brother Gregor Mendel; monk, scientist and the discoverer of genetics.

How Mendel solves a problem of color and runs for higher office.

by

John Hulme

scholar

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 John Hulme

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews..

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Afterword

Bonus Section - the history of chemistry

About the Author

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Chapter One

A breath of air

Starting as a slight difference in air pressure, the puff of wind came to life at the base of a clump of water-reeds and began its journey along the bank of the local stream. Its passing disturbed a tuft of grass and several blades shivered and shook along their length, but the slight breeze had passed on.

Climbing the side of the bank, the moving air rustled the leaves on a hawthorn bush, dry and crinkley after the drought of early winter, then ducked through the wooden staves of the weathered fence and skidded along the cobbles that paved the back lane leading to the hill.

Dust, dirt and the stems of long dead weeds swirled into the gathering gloom of an English evening, which this far north in Lancashire came long before the shops closed for the day. But this was a Sunday, so all the shops along the lane were shuttered and their owners tucked safely behind the thick, lichen covered, brown stone walls of their cottages and houses.

As the wind gathered in energy and momentum it rattled the panes of glass that separated the hardy occupants from the gathering darkness and twisted away again up the hill. Every chimney in the village was smoking heavily and the wind caught the dense fumes of burning coal, pulling them to greater heights.

One chimney was cold and dark; that belonging to the cloth weaving mill that gave employment to the Sunday-resting villagers. But the wind caught against the edges of the solid brick structure and whipped itself into complex web of individual streams of cold, searching air.

One of the stronger streams left the rest and prodded the sides of the manufactory looking for any possibility of egress. Finding none, for all the doors and windows were securely padlocked for the Sabbath, it rattled the piles of wooden boxes stacked by the main gates and scattered the straw that the horses had trampled into the stable courtyard. One of the horses stamped its feet, whinnied softly and turned to see the source of the noise, but the wind had moved on.

High on the side of the largest mill building, a thin light shone faintly through a pane of grime covered glass, indicating that the manufactory was not totally deserted. Taking a chance, the wind nudged the rotten wood that surrounded the glass and dislodged it inwards, leaving a gap. Through this gap it now traveled and found itself in a strange room dominated by a long wooden bench running down the middle.

On this bench were porcelain bowls, now clean and empty, but standing next to rows and rows of tall glass bottles, each labeled with some unintelligible name and filled with mixtures of white powders and yellow liquids. In wicker baskets test-tubes were stacked to drain themselves dry after a week of use in the cause of science, and complex glass shapes were held in seemingly endless arrays by metal clamps and asbestos string.

By chance, the breeze that had started as a puff of disturbed air down by the stream now found itself in a 19th century research laboratory attached to a cloth weaving mill. It darted around the scattering of metal tripods and rubber gas tubes and swept to the end of the room where the light was coming from a large oil lamp on the bench.

Beside the lamp a young man stood with an open cloth folder from which he was removing page after page of tightly written foolscap paper. He examined each page carefully, checking the front and back for the information it contained and then placing the most informative pages in a separate pile by a large leather attachÈ case. He had been at this task for some time now, and the pile of papers was growing.

But his work was almost done. A final sheet of foolscap was added to his collection and the rest were returned to the cloth folder and that in turn was returned to a large, open, iron banded safe in the corner of the room. The door on the safe was carefully and noiselessly closed and re-locked.

This was where the wind seized its chance and with a devilish twist dived among the carefully selected stack of papers, sending them flying up and outwards in all directions. With a curse, the young man rushed back across the laboratory and tried to prevent the papers becoming too widely distributed. He did not succeed, and so spent the next few minutes holding the large lamp in one hand while he poked around the darkened corners of the room, picking them up again. Eventually his collection was back together but most of the pages were covered in dirt and dust.

Also, they were now in no particular order, so it was hard to tell if he had found them all, but one final check seemed to convince him. He placed them all in the attacheattachÈ case, looked around once more, then, blowing out the lamp he left the room. His long journey had just started.

Tomorrow he would leave the English weaving town forever, make his way to London and take a packet steamer to the continent. There he would put his luggage onboard a train and rattle his way, third class, across the countries of France and Austria to a small town south of Prague; Brno, it said on the letter inviting him to come and take up a new, more rewarding professional position.

Until then, Carl Emmanuel Waldschmidt was determined to be very careful and not draw too much attention to himself. He had enjoyed his life in England very much, had become something of an Anglophile, and had made many English friends. He had earned their respect for his dedicated work during the last few years, and he in turn had gained enormous respect for the energy and inventiveness of the Victorian Britons, particularly that of his current employer, William Perkins. If any of them discovered the contents of his case, all that respect would end, and he would be remembered as a traitor, not a hardworking German scientist.

Sadly, he carried his case through the rows and rows of silent spinning and weaving machines, past the bales of wool and vats of dye, and out of a side door by the main gate. As a trusted employee who had been responsible for setting up a brand new method of preparing cloth, he was in possession of his own key to the gate, which he now used for the last time. He would leave it with the porter at the railway station tomorrow, and it would be some days before his absence was noted.

Turning up his coat collar against the wind that had scattered his papers, he walked down the hill and into the cobbled streets of the village. Behind him, in the now empty science laboratory, the air still moved, but sluggishly. As it drifted behind a cabinet it disturbed a sheet of foolscap paper and pushed it through the dust. The ink on the paper only covered one side, but it was neatly written in dark ink and the information it contained changed the course of events two continents away.

Because he had left that single piece of paper behind him, Carl Waldschmidt, had set in motion a chain of events that would not only change his own life, but that of a monk who only wished to be left alone with his quiet life, grow his peas and teach his classes at the local Realschule. Brother Gregory, had he known of it, would have heartedly wished that single sheet of foolscap paper safely back in the German's case. But fate had other ideas.

Requiem

As the last notes of the Requiem mass rattled in the throats of the pipe organ at the front of the church, Untercommandant Heinrich Darmstaedter slipped from his pew and left by a side door. Although the winter of 1868-69 had not been a particularly harsh one in the small Moravian town of Brno, he was warmly dressed in a fine cloth coat with astrakhan collar that reached high above his ears.

After turning the corner, he took up a semi-concealed position under a slight overhang where he had a good view of the church steps and the main doors through which the mourners would be leaving in a few moments. The death of Abbot Napp that winter had not been unanticipated or unexpected, so St. Peter and St. Paul's church had been filled to capacity for this final, memorial service.

Along all the side streets a fine collection of carriages, broughams, britzkas, Berlins and one magnificent Grand Duc, awaited their owners who were now beginning to trickle out of the church. First came some of the local town's people, many of whom had at one time of another benefited from Abbot Napp's generosity. Many hurried away on foot to their houses and places of business, but many more lingered on the church steps to watch the gentry exit and leave.

Next came the monks of St. Thomas monastery all respectably attired in clerical garb, but with heavy greatcoats over their shoulders. They moved into a crooked line down the steps and spoke a few words with each of the guests as they left to look for their carriages.

A fine service, don't you think? said a voice behind him, and the man in charge of state security of the local Staat Polizei could not help a slight jump of surprise. He turned to see a man of middle size with a receding hair line and wispy eyebrows staring at him from dark brown eyes of particular intensity.

Monsignor, I did not hear you, Darmstaedter confessed, a fine service indeed. It seems that Napp had a great many friends and admirers. I have not seen such a crowded church since the bones of St. Hugh were transferred here a few years ago. He looked at the Vicar General, and the Bishop was particularly kind in his eulogy, considering that he hardly had a good word to say about the Abbot when he was alive.

That is not true, murmured his companion, lowering his eyes, the Bishop has nothing but respect for the fine work the Abbot did, when he was alive. As the closest confident of Bishop Schaffgotsche, Josef Schrattenbach should have known his master's feelings better than anyone, and had chosen his reply with care.

Darmstaedter noted the fact that the Bishop, and the Vicar General, praised the Abbot for his work, but not for his attitude or beliefs, and then moved on.

Yes, the man will be missed. He is not going to be easy to replace. Few can fill his shoes.

I'm not sure that will be the case, Schrattenbach begged to differ, and perhaps this would be a good time to return the monastery at St. Thomas to a more pastoral, and less political, role in the community. The next Abbot will certainly not enjoy the favored position Napp held in the Diet and the other local associations.

So he will be easier to control, Darmstaedter smiled.

Control, is perhaps too strong a wrong word, Schrattenbach said, Advise, might be a better one.

He shrugged, but which ever word is correct, the Bishop hopes that he will have a more positive working relationship with the next Abbot, and fewer areas of friction.

And you might find it easier to squeeze all the money you are owed by the monastery out of the next Abbot, laughed the Untercommandant, well aware of the long running feud between the monastery and the Palace over the matter of church dues.

But before the Vicar general could reply, a stir swept through the crowd in front of the church, and the Grand Duc with its coat of arms on the door, liveried staff at the reins and matched horses in the shafts pulled out of the line and up to the church steps. From the doorway of the church a woman wrapped heavily in fine furs slowly made her way down the stone stairs, stopping to shake the hand and say a word to each of the monks. The Countess Walpurga Truchsess-Zeil might be almost 90 years old, but she could still walk unaided and had lost none of her patrician charm or sense of duty.

At the base of the stairs, and just before entering her carriage, the Countess turned to one of the dignitaries and beckoned him over so they could talk. Herr Otto Grundewald responded at once, bowing his head several times as he approached the lady and swiftly removing his warm, fur hat.

The Countess and the bareheaded cloth manufacturer spoke but few words, however the message was clearly transferred to the satisfaction of both, since the Countess entered her carriage by resting her arm on that of the burger, and even gave him a friendly wave as the fine bay chestnuts carried her away.

Grunewald placed his hat back on his head and looked around the crowd on the steps, clearly searching for someone.

What do you think that was all about? Darmstaedter asked his companion.

There is only one thing on the mind of the Countess right now, Schrattenbach replied, the up coming marriage of her great grand-daughter in the Spring. From what I have heard it is to be a magnificent affair. The girl is marrying a direct relative of the Emperor himself so no expense is being spared and the arrangements are being supervised by the Countess herself. Nothing is being left to chance.

But why Grunewald? Darmstaedter could not help asking again. He is rich enough and prominent enough a citizen to be invited to the wedding, but why would the Countess show him such favor on a day such as this?

Schrattenbach shrugged again. With all your resources, I'm surprised you do not already know, he said, referring to the fact that in matters of state security the Untercommandant made it his business to know everything important. His army of informers kept a steady stream of gossip and facts coming across his desk on a daily basis, and anything that might concern one of the more important noble families in the area would surely have been reported to him a long time ago.

Darmstaedter hated to admit ignorance, so he did not reply, but made a mental note to himself to research the answer before the day was out. Grunewald, he knew, had recently invested a lot of money on a new manufactory of fine cloth that was located just outside of town, near the river. When it had opened, the better connected people in town had been invited to take a tour, guided by Otto Grunewald himself. Darmstaedter remembered being very impressed at all the latest, modern weaving looms and other fancy machinery imported from England, including a huge steam engine that provided the power to drive them all.

It is said that Grunewald wants to be the next Generaldirektor of the Webereimitarbeiter and is doing his best to get elected to that position this summer, when the old Direktor retires, Darmstaedter said after some thought. Perhaps he is looking for the support of the Countess.

As President of the Weavers Association, Otto Grunewald would advance several steps in the local social hierarchy and possibly get himself a seat in the Diet. For an ambitious businessman such as Grunewald, this would be the logical next step and well worth kissing the hand of the Countess to get it.

Once again the crowd parted as the Bishop swept out of the doors of the church, down the steps and then had to wait awkwardly for his carriage; a shiny brougham with a mitered crest on its side.

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